Maidenstone Lighthouse Read Online Free PDF Page B

to be absolutely certain that I wasn’t stumbling in on some poor couple snuggled in for a romantic New England autumn weekend—something that Bobby and I had often talked about doing but had never quite gotten around to.
    Somewhere above my head, in the vicinity of Aunt Ellen’s old bedroom, I thought, a rafter groaned under the buffeting of the rising wind outside.
    The house was otherwise silent.
    Satisfied that I was alone, and feeling just a little foolish, I sighed heavily and dropped my overnight case onto the worn pine deacon’s bench beside the front door. Then, switching on more lights as I went, I walked back toward the kitchen with my groceries.
    As I passed through the parlor and the dining room a small smile of pleasure crossed my lips. When Damon and I had left Freedman’s Cove three years before, the workmen were still finishing up the remodeling and the place had been a complete mess. Now, however, with my aunt’s best furniture neatly rearranged and gleaming with lemon-scented polish and with the clutter of painter’s drop cloths and ladders gone, I realized that Damon’s hurried makeover had done absolute wonders for the Victorian.
    Gone, along with Aunt Ellen’s somber, densely patterned wallpaper and heavily swagged velvet draperies, were the horrid rubber plants and the grim portraits of my stern New England ancestors that had hung, late-1800s fashion, tilted away from the cheerless walls on braided cords. Now, those funereal trappings had been replaced by expanses of creamy white plaster, simple sea green curtains and a few good nautical prints, all of which perfectly accentuated the wonderfully molded floral copings below the high ceilings and showed the busy lines of the sturdy old period furnishings to best advantage.
    Compared to their former melancholy atmosphere the big rooms now felt positively airy. And I imagined how pleasant they must be on bright summer days, with puffs of soft sea air wafting in through the tall cased windows.
    In the kitchen, a similarly pleasing transformation had been accomplished with new cabinet facings, retiled countertops and parquet flooring. The removal of decades’ worth of yellowing paint from the stamped tin ceiling, and the addition of plants along with modern appliances cleverly designed to replicate the antiques that they had replaced, had turned the room into a bright and cheerful space for work and living.
    After peering briefly into cupboards and drawers stocked for the convenience of renters with adequate supplies of everyday utensils, I found some tea things. And while the kettle was coming to a boil I checked to be sure the gas and water were turned on and that the new refrigerator was working.
    A few minutes later, with my little stock of groceries stashed in the fridge, and balancing a small tray in one hand and my overnight case in the other, I wearily climbed the narrow back stairs to the second floor.
    Upstairs, Damon’s pleasing handiwork was everywhere evident. Each of the three formerly cheerless guest bedrooms was now pleasant and welcoming, with brightly colored comforters on the beds and light, attractive wall coverings setting off the natural tones of lovingly polished woodwork.
    But my pleased smile faded as I reached the end of the hall and paused in the open doorway of Aunt Ellen’s room. For even the pleasant new floral wallpaper and the gaily colored patchwork coverlet could not disguise the massive four-poster bed in which the poor old dear had died so alone and lonely three years earlier.
    As I stood there, tired and heartsick, I suddenly found the words that I had not been able to say at her funeral. “Thank you for all that you gave me, Auntie,” I whispered to the empty room.
    As if in reply to my heartfelt words a few spatters of freezing rain from the approaching storm rattled like grains of shot against the windows. So I turned out the light and proceeded down the hall to the